


Another Unfamiliar Ceiling

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Irene's smarter than Sherlock gives her credit for, Post-Reichenbach, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Irene are on the run after Reichenbach. Irene, as usual, is smarter and more perceptive than Sherlock gives her credit for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Unfamiliar Ceiling

**Author's Note:**

> Little post-Reichenbach ficlet. Sherlock and Irene, totally platonic. Hints of future John/Sherlock, if you squint?

The hotel rooms have all started to blur together. They're in Krakow now, or maybe St. Petersburg. There's snow falling outside, but lately there's been snow everywhere, so that doesn't really help with the location. Sherlock finds he doesn't really care about where they are. What's more important is where they aren't. London. Home.

He's studying the room, vaguely taking in minute details. The curtains are faintly yellowed at the top, a small burn mark visible on one of the arm chairs. This used to be a smoking room then, before it got outlawed nearly everywhere. There's a small indentation in the carpet - the dresser's been moved to the left a few inches. The last person to stay here must have stained the flooring somehow. There's a small percolator at one end of the unit. Coffee then, not blood. Dull.

The bathroom door opens with a muffled creak and Irene saunters out. She's stolen Sherlock's new red robe, accessorised with a towel wrapped around her head turban-style. He sighs and falls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Something hits the bed with a heavy thud, landing next to his hip. His hand wanders down, curious, exploring. Her hairbrush, the sharp natural bristles prickling his fingertips. A stinging sensation, but not wholly unpleasant. Idly, he wonders if she ever uses it at work.

She throws herself onto the bed, facing away from Sherlock, and unwraps the towel, letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders.

"Go on then. You're no Kate, but you'll do. I don't trust the hairdryer here." She nods over her shoulder, looking pointedly at the hairbrush.

Awkwardly, and without a word, Sherlock sits up, picks up the brush, and runs it tentatively through Irene's wet locks. They're much curlier when they're damp, he notes. It suits her. Softens her. 

Unbidden, thoughts of John come flooding into Sherlock's mind. He finds himself wondering what it would feel like to have their roles rearranged. John's steady hands dragging the brush through Sherlock's wild curls. Ridiculous thought. He does his best to push it aside. Mind wandering, he tugs the brush with more force than intended, and Irene lets out a soft moan.

Startled, he lets the brush fall and she laughs sharply.

"Poor boy. Do those strange noises alarm you?"

"Oh, grow up." Sherlock huffs. "You distracted me."

Irritably, he picks the brush back up, but Irene's standing and pacing already.

"When are you going to go back to him?"

There's no question who she means, but Sherlock plays it coy. "Whom?"

"You know  _whom_." She spits the last word out, a verbal slap. Is she teasing him about the grammar, or the question? He shakes his head, frustratingly out of his depth. "It's almost Christmas, Sherlock. He's going to be alone, you know he is."

Sherlock stares out the window, his face impassive. Inside though, he feels his heart pounding in his chest. Bleak images of John sitting alone in the flat, or worse, in some dingy bedsit, parade through his mind.

"I can't, Irene." It sounds childish and feeble, and Sherlock knows it. "I can't risk it." Can't risk  _him_. Sherlock doesn't say that last part, but they both hear it nonetheless.

Irene closes her eyes for a moment, fingers gesturing in the air as she revisits some memory. When she opens her eyes her face is strangely gentle and unguarded.

"Tell him you're alive. Tell him or I will."

There's no artifice there, no attempt at a power play. She's being completely and brutally honest. Sherlock reaches into his pocket, fingers stroking the keys of the cheap smartphone he purchased at the airport in Brussels. He's lost count of how many times he's written - and then deleted - the text.

He runs through the calculations in his mind. Three weeks left, two members of Moriarty's web to go. Plenty of time to tie up loose ends and catch a flight home. Scowling, unwilling to concede defeat to Irene, he grips the phone in his hand and storms into the cramped hotel bathroom. The mirror is still fogged up, the smell of her expensive shampoo still lingering in the air.

Before he has time to change his mind, Sherlock's fingers fly across the tiny keyboard.

 _Coming home for Christmas, John. Have tea ready._ He pauses, hovering over the SEND key. Almost as an afterthought, he types out one more word.  _Please?_

Resolve hardened, he sends the message. As soon as the confirmation comes through, he removes the battery and pulls the SIM card out of the phone, crushing it between his fingers. He barges out of the toilet, shoulders determinedly set, and nods at Irene. If Sherlock notices the crinkle around her eyes, the soft smile playing across her lips, he doesn't acknowledge it.

"Come on then, get dressed. We've got a timeframe to work with."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Journey's End Or I Was Adored Once Too](https://archiveofourown.org/works/802691) by [CherryBlossomTide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryBlossomTide/pseuds/CherryBlossomTide)




End file.
